


never not chasing

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Loras and Willas are soldiers, Renly dies, SansaWillasWeek 2014 - Day Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(the million things i want)<br/>Meeting Sansa has made him certain that he is going to have a good life, a great life. ‘Even with the cane? he thinks to ask, but swallows the desire. His leg, or better yet the damage done to it, does not define him, nor should it prevent him from seeing someone like Sansa.’<br/>Second entry for SansaWillasWeek 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never not chasing

“Good morning, welcome to Stark Apparel! Feel free to let me know if I can help you.”

 The high-pitched, obviously fake greeting almost makes him cringe, but he swallows the urge because today is going to be a good day, a  _great_  day.

He’s chanted the phrase thrice since leaving the house, and each time serves to further his belief. Today is going to be a good day, a  _great_  day…it simply has to be. Both he and Loras are out of the house, Loras has even showered and shaved, thank the gods, and his leg is throbbing slightly less than usual. Loras’ eyes are not yet red-rimmed, and Willas himself does not shudder at every bump and bang. Perhaps it was quite optimistic to venture out by themselves, with neither Margie or Garlan for company (or rather, as a lookout in case something happened), but honestly, both he and Loras are grown adults, and they don’t need to be babied. 

It’s been a hard six months, but gods be damned, today is going to be a good day.

“Good morning,” he forces himself to chirp back to the auburn haired girl at the counter, her head bowed and her hands involved in sorting out a pile of clothing tags. She nods slightly at his reply, not looking up, and he drags Loras forward by the sleeve of his jacket, ignoring the blank stare in his younger brother’s eyes. He motions towards the cluster of coats hanging in front of them, and Loras, thankfully, takes the hint and begins to look through them, running his hands over the material.

It has been six months, and Loras is still as traumatised as the day he pushed him into the helicopter before him, ignoring the throbbing in his leg and the blood that he couldn’t seem to stem no matter how tightly he tied his scrap of a shirt around it. Through gritted teeth he’d demanded they take his brother first _dammit_ , even as blood dripped down his leg. 

They’d left Renly cold on the ground, and ever since then his brother has been as lifeless as Renly’s corpse. Not even Margie can shake him out of it, not even their mother weeping and holding Loras tightly to her can summon any sort of a reaction. Therapy hadn’t helped one bit, and after the sessions required by the army, Loras had stubbornly refused to return. 

Sometimes, when he cannot sleep for fear of seeing the blood and hearing the screams, and he plainly refuses to take another sleeping pill, he thinks maybe it would have been better for Loras to have died there with Renly. He thinks this for a few chilling heartbeats, until he realises how fucking terrible that thought is, and leaps out of bed, rushing as fast as he can to his brother’s room to check that he is still breathing, is still there. 

Loras plucks one coat off a hanger, and slips it over his form – thinner than he has ever been, but alive, still breathing. He longs for the slightly narcissistic man he had been before they’d gone overseas, for the boyish 18 year old that had spent hours in front of the mirror tousling his curls and shifting seemingly through his entire closet before deciding on an outfit. For the boy who had sheepishly told them all that he was in love, that this was the real deal, and that he was so, so happy. Willas had signed up because his job provided him with no satisfaction and honestly what else was he ever going to accomplish in his life, but Loras had gone because Renly had – and now Renly was lost, and he was left with a Loras that was not really Loras, just a shell.

Loras looks at himself in the mirror, pulling the coat tight around himself. He notices the faraway look in his brother’s eyes, the way he runs his hands over the sleeves of the coat like he is remembering the feel of someone else’s arms, and he thinks it would be best to leave him alone with his thoughts. They have both been mollycoddled long enough, and it is time for them to deal with their grief. Perhaps a clothing store isn’t the best place but… it’s relatively empty and he’s sure he can drag Loras out before his weeping grows too loud, if it comes to that. He hopes it doesn’t. 

He walks slowly over to the counter, musing silently to himself as he grips his cane tightly. He’d continued bleeding out in the helicopter, Loras silent beside him, and he’d thought he would die there, with a shell-shocked brother and a leg that resembled a chewed up piece of beef rather than a normal limb. He still shudders when he dares to look at his leg, even after countless surgeries, and he dreads the thought of someone else viewing it, of letting someone else see how truly broken he is.

But, at least he can walk, even if it took him extreme effort and if he over-exerts himself, leaves him in pain for numerous days. He is still whole, still alive, still  _here_. He thinks it oddly fitting – the war has shown its impact physically on him, but internally on Loras. Loras, thin and sleep deprived as he was, is still the handsome son of a bitch he’d always been, all brown curls and sparkling eyes. 

The auburn haired girl looks up as he approaches the counter, and he silently curses himself and his cane for his lack of subtlety – never again will he manage to sneak up on Garlan and dump shaving cream in his hair, nor will he not be so fucking visible everywhere he goes, the thirty something year old with a cane in his hand and a mind filled with the memories of war.

“Did you need something?” the girl asks, eyes flickering over to where Loras stands, still looking at himself in the mirror, but not really, not really. He hope she does not question his brother’s faraway stare, for how could he even begin to explain everything that has happened?

Her name-tag reads ‘Sansa’, and he does away with his initial assessment, for she isn’t really a girl, her forehead furrowed as she looks at him and the blouse she wears unable to hide the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He internally berates himself for leering at a girl that must be around Loras’ age, or even younger, but it has been so long – he’d last lain with a woman, one of Oberyn’s numerous cousins, months before he decided to sign up and make something of himself, dreaming of years of service for his country and badges that he could pin on his chest and would make the women swoon.

He’d returned no less than a year and a half later, with a ruined leg and no badges to speak of. 

He shakes his head softly in lieu of actually answering her question, fearing his mouth has been rendered useless. She arches an eyebrow gently at him, locking eyes with him, before shrugging and returning to the tags in front of her, fingers deftly sorting through them. He curses himself silently for being such a bloody useless bastard, gripping his cane tightly and attempt to manoeuvre forward without making a fool of himself, attempting to look as if this Sansa has not caused his heart to race in way he associates only with foolish teenage boys.

He has just finished looking over his fifth blue button up shirt (which, in truth, looks the same as the other four) in an attempt to occupy himself and not appear as if he is constantly peering over his shoulder to look at Sansa, when Loras taps him on the shoulder. His little brother licks his chapped lips softly, looks quickly up at him and then away once more, thrusting a folded up piece of clothing into his chest.

“Do you want this?” Willas questions, shaking the coat out. It is the same one Loras has being wearing for the last twenty minutes, but only now as he shakes it out and smooths it back down again, does he remember why it looks so similar. Renly had one just similar, but when they had returned without him Loras had broken into his apartment, snatched the coat and spent an evening locking in the bathroom sobbing. His mother had hoped that would be the end of it, that Loras would now finally meet her eyes and return her embrace, but when he’d finally exited the bathroom, he hadn’t murmured a word. They found the coat shredded into pieces, green fabric piled high in the bathtub.

Loras nods softly, and Willas smiles at him, returning the nod. Loras seats himself down on a blue chair, hands clasped tightly in his lap. It takes a few minutes, what with the coat in one hand and his cane in the other, but the auburn-haired girl, this Sansa, smiles at him when he finally reaches the counter. Her gentle smile makes him somewhat less self-conscious of his loping stride, the way his right leg must swing in a wider circle than the other in order for him to make any sort of attempt at walking. He hands the coat over to her, and she scans the tag silently, folding it swiftly and bagging it. It is all over all too quickly for his liking, for he would have liked the chance to better admire the scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the chance to better guess her age and perhaps not feel like such a creep for looking at her.

But the murmur of ‘Have a good day’ as he guides Loras out of the shop, the plastic bag gripped tightly in his brother’s hand, is enough for him.

After viewing such beauty, today has to be great.

\---                                

She’s twenty.  _Twenty._  In the prime of her life, the possibilities for her future endless. He remembers what he’d been like at twenty, determined to finish his degree at university but more often than not distracted by the parties and events Oberyn managed to snag them invites to – primarily by shagging the host themselves, no matter their sex.

Gods, he feels disgusting for even looking at her. He knows he’d hate it if some thirty year old leered at Margie that way, even if his sister can handle herself and her boyfriend, a black-haired guy named Jon who spends his weekends getting battered on the rugby field, is capable of protecting her.

No matter how disgusted he feels about it, he cannot stop thinking about Sansa Stark. Margie knows her from university, and if she notes the eager tone in her brother’s voice when he asks about her, she doesn’t say anything. Loras has taken to wearing the coat they purchased everywhere, even to bed, but he has begun eating more and even manages to hold conversation for over five minutes, so no one dares to make him part with the coat - even if it has begun to smell. They are both slowly healing, and the thought makes him happy, even when his leg pains him. The doctors had suggested they remove the limb from below the knee entirely, and replace it with a prosthetic, but at the time, surrounded by pain and guilt, he had declined the offer. Surgery is and always will be still an option, but he is content with his cane for now.

He’s returned to his hum-drum job in the family company, spending his days stifling in a suit and shuffling papers to look busy. The Tyrells deal in food, and he supposes he should be happy that he isn’t shuffled out to source crops and supplies like Garlan is. Nonetheless, his brother adores his responsibilities and often ropes his wife in assist him, Netty coming from the Fossoways, a prominent family of apple growers.

Loras shows up at the office sporadically, content to spend his days at home. He’d never wanted to join the company, and despite his stupid reason for signing up, his brother had been fantastic in the army, the first one to rise and the last one to fall into bed, always alert, always ready. He supposes Loras will never be able to accept the fact that despite all of his skills, despite all of his training and all of his ability, Renly still died. The thought saddens him.

Margie lives on campus at the local university, returning home on weekends mainly to spend time with Loras and score a free meal or two – not to mention take advantage of the odd delight their mother takes in washing her clothes. Before they’d returned from overseas, their mother had reported Margie spent most of her evenings out partying, crawling back to her bed on campus in the wee hours of the morning like any normal twenty year old should. But now his sister declines any and all invitations to go out, preferring to sit on the couch with Loras, running her fingers through his curly mop of hair. They’ve always been close, possibly because Margie was born only ten months after Loras, but he knows having her around soothes his brother, and he is thankful for it.

When he receives a text from Margie inviting him to lunch as he sits bored at his desk, he is more than happy to accept, more than happy to leave the stifling office and venture out. He would have liked nothing more than to never return to this job, but he’s a grown man and he needs the money, even if his mother has told him time and time again that he is always welcome back home. His stubborn pride refuses to allow him to accept the offer, even if it would be nice to have someone else around – just in case one evening he cannot raise himself out of the bath, or if he slips and cannot get back up. But he’d stayed at home for four months after returning, and that had been more than enough.

The place Margie suggests is only a few blocks away, so he thinks he should be okay to walk, although he leaves twenty minutes early in case his leg pains him and makes sure his phone is tucked in his pocket, just in case. The street is thankfully quiet as he walks slowly down it, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his tie loosened. Strands of his hair fall into his eyes almost continuously, and he resigns himself to the fact that it is definitely time to have it cut - but definitely not as short as the army had shorn it. 

When he finally reaches the cafe, he strains his eyes to spot Margie, Her thick bundle of brown curls shouldn’t be too hard to see, but nonetheless he cannot see her. Surely she would have stood out the front to greet him, or kept an eye on the entrance? He enters the bustling cafe, cane in hand, and from his vantage point at the front once more tries to spot his sister. Perhaps he should text her, just in case she was held up, or her class ran late, but as he reaches for his phone it buzzes in his pocket.

 _Back corner booth_ , it reads and he expels a breath softly, thankfully that his sister is here and has not left him stranded in an unknown cafe. He silently curses his earlier decision to walk the entire way there, for now his leg is paining him something dreadful, and he desperately needs to sit down.

The silent curse over his leg dies in his throat as he shuffles forward a few more paces, eyeing the back corner booth, expecting his sister’s brown curls to meet his eyes. But it is not Margie waiting for him at the booth, hair curled around her neck and a newspaper in hand. Margie had decided to be more intellectual just last week, but he knows for certain that she only ever bothers to read the gossip articles in the newspaper, not the actual news. She’s able to recite all the latest celebrity weddings, but she wouldn’t be able to tell him the details of the car crash in London just last Monday. 

The woman seated in the back corner booth, waiting patiently for him to join her for lunch, is Sansa Stark, auburn hair braided and piled on top of her head. The neckline of her shirt is low enough that he can see a mole upon the top of her left breast, and he darts his eyes away, even if she is metres away. She arches an eyebrow at him when he finally reaches the booth, having weaved his way through the cafe, lips curling into a smile.

“Margie tricked you too?” she questions. He nods, shuffling rather awkwardly into the booth, limbs failing him at the sight of her. He places his cane next to him, rubbing out the ache in his knee and hoping he shall not have to leave, not now, not with Sansa in front of him and looking so very beautiful in the afternoon sun streaming through the cafe. She says nothing about the cane, and as he silently massages the ache in his leg she begins reading the menu, lips pursued as she surveys it.

He expels a sigh of relief as the pain in his leg finally disappears, sipping slowly from the glass of chilled water in front of him. Sansa looks him over, before inhaling and exhaling slowly. He is close enough to her that he can smell her perfume, a scent of vanilla and lilies that he supposes is rather fitting, much better than Margie’s constant desire to douse herself in the artificial scent of roses. If his sister bothered to step out into the garden at their childhood home, a garden he had laboured over for numerous weekends with his mother years ago, she would know the perfume she liberally applied to herself did not smell truly of roses, did not truly capture the scent of dirt and rain and growth.

Sansa smiles at him, a motion which causes small wrinkles to appear in the corners of her eyes, before murmuring, “I suppose a lunch with Margie’s brother won’t be too bad. Especially when she has spent the last week gushing all about you.” Sansa scoffs lightly. “As if I need to be convinced to go out with someone, even if my last boyfriend did turn out to be a complete arsehole. She should have just given you my number, instead of tricking us both. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He shrugs silently, trying desperately to focus on the menu in front of him rather than the way Sansa’s rather ample chest rises and falls with every breath she takes. He isn’t a teenage boy for god’s sakes, but he fears being around Sansa makes him act rather like one. When he does look up once more, done with reading about the numerous merits of the lasagne (a meal he suspects would just be store-bought and defrosted before serving - Margie isn’t renowned for her choices in restaurants), she arches her eyebrow once more at him, shaking her head.

“She should have just given you my number,” she repeats, looking directly at him. Her blue eyes are framed by what he assumes are numerous coats of black mascara, and he cannot look away. “Or you could have, the day you came into the store. I saw the way you looked at me, and, truthfully, I wouldn’t have minded. You are rather handsome.”

 _Even with the cane?_  he thinks to ask, but swallows the desire. His leg, or better yet the damage done to it, does not define him, nor should it prevent him from seeing someone like Sansa. His psychologist has made him swear to remember that.

The blush that settles over his cheeks makes Sansa laugh gently, and Willas himself feel like a fool, but he doesn’t mind. For, with a beautiful lady in front of him and a flutter in his chest that he hasn’t felt in an age, today is shaping up to be another great day – and he has had to convince himself of the fact. He once more dares to meet her eyes, murmuring, “Shall we order?”

The meal is quite pleasant, but then he has vowed to relish every meal after months of not knowing if he would ever see a plate of his mother’s beef stew again. But their plates are both empty by the end of it, and Sansa’s face is content, a smile playing on her lips.

He longs to kiss them, but swallows the urge. It has been a perfect afternoon, the ache in his leg has dulled to little more than a twinge, and he does not dare to ruin it by overstepping, by acting like a fool. It is enough that Sansa ate a meal with him, instead of leaving immediately when he arrived. He can hardly believe she did, or that he made her laugh more times than he can count – he now relishes the sound of her laughter, and the sound of her true voice, not the crisp greeting he had first heard.

They both delay their departure from the cafe, sipping more glasses of water than necessary and tearing apart pieces of bread in a facade of eating. He does not wish for it to end, and judging by the look in the Sansa’s eyes, neither does she.

Today has been a good day, a great day, but all good things must come to an end.

He almost thinks the afternoon ruined when Sansa demands he pays for the entire meal, her two desserts and all - both lemon based and so sour to his palate he’d declined a second bite. He splutters for a few moments, before she continues, eyebrow arched and a smirk on her lips, claiming that it would terribly ungentlemanly for him not to pay on their first date. The puff of air he expels in relief after she finishes speaking causes her to break into another round of laughter, hand pressed to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound.

He doesn’t mind paying, and he minds it even less a few minutes later when Sansa pulls him close to her and places a soft kiss on his lips. It last only a few seconds, and he is too nervous to fully reciprocate, but it is great nonetheless. Sansa is grinning when she pulls back from him, still clasping his hand. She arches an eyebrow at the flush that has settled over his cheeks before turning on her heeled boots and striding down the street, hair shining in the afternoon sun.

The pain in his leg prevents him from rushing after her and kiss him with all the fervour he so desires, but he thinks it is better that way.

So does Sansa, for she shows upon on his apartment doorstep late that evening, hair now loose down her back. Hands on her hips, she declares, “I just know you can kiss better than that Willas Tyrell.”

Willas does not bother with a reply, merely pulling her into his arms. He drops his cane and a rather expensive book of poetry in his haste, but he doesn’t mind, busying himself with showing Sansa Stark just how well he can kiss…amongst other things. 


End file.
